


he will welcome the distraction

by infinite_diversity



Category: Kingdom of Heaven (2005)
Genre: Also they're 16 and 18, And also totally non-sexual hair braiding, By that I mean there is UNO playing, Crack, Fluff, Gen, I have too many emotions about medieval royal siblings, I'm so broken, Siblings, So this takes place after the Battle of Montgisard, and gratuitous descriptions of Baldwin being a poor baby, leprosy, sorry this got really long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:12:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_diversity/pseuds/infinite_diversity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 16-year-old King Baldwin of Jerusalem returns from his victory at Montgisard sick and exhausted, and his older sister decides to cheer him up with a strange card game she discovered while he was gone. There is also alcohol. Either way, they don't get very far, and in the end Baldwin falls asleep on Sibylla's lap while she braids his hair. So basically this is pointless crack!fluff. There is way too much angst as well. I suck at being funny (which was the actual point of this) and I don't even speak English. So Ska, you have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he will welcome the distraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skazka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/gifts).



**(HEY SKA. So this is not in any way proofread because it is already past 2 a.m. and I really, really wanted to finally upload this stupid thing. I'll do it at some point; just not now. Also, sorry this got so incredibly long. Really wasn't my intention! Hope you like it anyway. Good night! PS.: Please show mercy with my English okay)**

 

\------------------

 

"You know this will not end well, my lady," Raymond of Tiberias muttered under his breath as he struggled to keep up with Princess Sibylla, cursing his leg.

 

Sibylla, wearing a heavy dark robe and a rather forced facial expression of enthusiasm, refused to grace the Count with so much as a glance and strode on through the palace corridor. Cradled to her chest, she held a small wooden box inlaid with ornamental brass workings. "He will welcome the distraction," she declared.

 

The princess of Jerusalem was now eighteen years old. Ever since returning to court three years ago - following the death of her father, King Amalric - she had been rather overprotective of her younger brother, who was crowned just one week after Amalric's passing. Technically, Sibylla was presently in her fifth month of mourning for her late husband William Montferrat (who had been known as 'Longsword' to the ladies at court, and Raymond had his own speculations about that). But despite William's untimely death and the sickly infant boy he had left her with, Raymond held the suspicion that her brother's campaign against Salah ad-Din was what wore Sibylla out the most.

 

It was a remarkably cold December, and almost two weeks had passed since Baldwin's victory at Montgisard and his return to Jerusalem. His arrival had not nearly been as glorious as the battle presumably had been - her brother had been carried through the city gates in a litter, veiled and shrouded and burning with fever.

 

The fever had not broken for eleven days, which Sibylla had spent pacing the palace gardens with her hounds. On the twelfth day, she decided to pay her brother a visit, not least because she wanted to hear his own account of what had and had not occurred at Montgisard. For the occasion, she had obtained a suitable small gift - she knew how much Baldwin loved games.

 

When the young woman finally stopped at the heavy double doors leading to her brother's chambers, Count Raymond breathed a sigh of relief - then his eyes widened a fraction and he put his hand on Sibylla's arm to prevent her from knocking. An agitated voice could be heard inside - loud and in somewhat accented French.

 

"The High Council has no need of you in this state!"

 

"The city needs her king. I cannot afford weakness any longer," a younger, more measured voice replied. Baldwin.

 

"The city is celebrating, Sire," the older man retorted. Sibylla now recognised him as Suhail, her brother's personal Saracen physician. "The perfect time for you to actually follow my advice for once and get some proper rest. It is bad enough that you seem to regard ferocious swordfighting as an enjoyable pastime these days. Your foolishness, Your Majesty..."

 

He went on in Arabic, and the seemingly stoic guard at the door next to the princess and count made a visible effort not to roll his eyes, indicating clearly that this was not the first time he had overheard this argument today.

 

Then, before Sibylla could knock again, the door was abruptly pushed open and Suhail, shaking his turban-clad head in exasperation, strode past the princess and the marshall, trailing a fluttering mess of bandages. Sibylla sighed and entered her brother's chambers, Raymond following close behind. The rooms were rather cold, and the delicate white and blue curtains swayed in a fresh breeze. She smelled incense burning.

 

"What was that all about?", she demanded brusquely. The thin sixteen-year-old  King of Jerusalem sat on a small divan wearing nothing but a long white tunic. His blond hair fell over his shoulders onto his chest in tangled waves - evidently Suhail had been working on Baldwin's back. Sibylla was well aware that the physician's attempts to convince the King to cut his hair had so far been in vain, and she was secretly amused at her brother's resistance. Though she had to admit it was lovely hair indeed - much like her own.

 

"The good physician seems to think me incapable of attending my own Council meetings," Baldwin replied drily. "Greetings, dear sister. Marshall." He nodded regally towards Raymond. "Do excuse my lack of clothing. I shall remedy that." At a small gesture, two servants emerged from the back of the room carrying sapphire and deep purple robes inlaid with precious metals and stones. Painfully slowly, the king rose from his divan and allowed the silent men to wrap him up in layers of the costly cloth. He was pale and unsteady and could not quite keep the mingled expression of exhaustion and annoyance at his own weakness off his handsome face.

 

"Sire, you are ill. Surely the Council does not desperately require your presence at the moment," Raymond said. Baldwin chuckled. "A poor excuse. It's not as though I will ever stop being ill." He lifted his arms a little to assist the servants with their task. 

 

Sibylla, who was generally not a fan of her brother's occasional outbursts of cynical fatalism, gave an annoyed sigh. "There is no need to dress up like this. You are not leaving this room until Suhail guarantees me that it is safe for you to do so. Or would you like to collapse in the middle of a corridor _again_?"

 

"That was one time. And you are not our mother. And neither is Suhail, though he forgets that sometimes."

 

"If you would rather consult with the Lady Agnes about this, I can have her summoned."

 

That worked.  

 

"For Christ's sake Sibylla, I have a kingdom to rule! How can I do that when everybody keeps trying to put me back to bed?" He stuck out his chin stubbornly and crossed his arms. The small but sudden movement drained the colour from his face and he swayed for a second before he steadied himself with one hand on the side of his desk. Raymond had already half reached out to his king, but then thought better of it and pulled back. Baldwin shot him a glance that Sibylla placed somewhere between utterly annoyed and appreciative. Which did not technically make sense, but her brother had all but perfected the art of expressing a multitude of emotions through his eyes alone. Sibylla used to be impressed greatly, but now she knew this was mostly because the disease had started to take the sensation from Baldwin's face. He hid it well, but smiles and frowns never came effortlessly to him. She mentally pushed the unwelcome thoughts aside and tried to look as confident as possible. Crossing her arms, she approached her brother.

 

"Suhail isn't an idiot, you know. You would do well to take his advice from time to time."

 

"And spend the rest of my days in bed drinking his herbal concoctions? Thank you, I believe I'll have to decline that offer."

 

She barely supressed a grin. "I _meant_ , the city really is celebrating. Salah-ad Din is defeated and it will be a long time before he regains his power and his forces in Egypt. There are no immediate threats to the city. There is no need for you to attend meaningless Council sessions. There will be petty complaints and talk of marriage arrangements - which I know you despise. So I say, rest, and let your representatives do their job. God knows I don't pity them."

 

Count Raymond, who was one such representative, appeared thoroughly uncomfortable now and was beginning to wonder why he had accompanied the Princess in the first place. Baldwin still didn't look convinced.

 

"Besides," Sibylla suddenly said, beaming brightly, "I brought you a gift."

 

Eyebrows slightly raised, he looked at his sister. "What's the occasion?"

 

"Do I need an occasion to express my admiration towards the hero of Montgisard, little brother?"

 

Baldwin chuckled and turned to Raymond. "Very well. You may leave us, Marshall. If you see Suhail outside, please inform him that I judge myself capable of choosing my own bedtime today. I really do feel a lot stronger. Thank you for your visit, Raymond."

 

The Count gave a curt nod and a slight bow, then left through the large double doors at the other end of the room. As soon as they closed behind him, Baldwin let himself sink back onto the divan he had sat on before. Sibylla walked over to his desk, where several scrolls of parchment had been spread out to let the ink on them dry. Most of the pages were written in Baldwin's own hand - large, neat cursive. At a closer look, she identified a letter adressed to Philip of Flanders, and a second one for their lady half-sister, Isabella. "When did you write all this?", she wondered out loud.

 

When her brother did not respond, she turned to find him still sitting, face buried in his left hand. "Brother?", she asked, trying to mask her concern. "Are you alright?"

 

With a shaky breath, the King raised his head. "Does that require an answer?"

 

Sibylla sighed.  Then she took her wooden box from a thin-legged small table and placed it in her brother's lap. "Your gift. It's a game." After some fumbling with his bandaged hands, Baldwin managed to raise the lid. "A card game?"

 

"Yes," she said. "Do you like it?"

 

"These are unlike any cards I've seen before," he said and carefully picked a few of them up to inspect them. They came in red, green, blue, and yellow, and the colours were almost unnaturally intense. Each card carried a large number in its center, written in a strange, angular and precise font that could only have been achieved with the finest brush. All cards seemed to have one such coloured side with a number between zero and nine and a black flip side inscripted with the letters UNO in that same unfamiliar hand.

 

Baldwin bent one of the cards. Even the material - shiny and even yet flexible - seemed strange. "They are beautiful, Sibylla. Where did you get them?"

 

 She smiled. "One of my handmaidens owns a set of these cards, and she taugt me to play while you were gone. It is simple, but I found it quite entertaining, so I instructed her to bring me another set. I believe she got it from a merchant in the city. But what does it matter? Come on now, I want to play!"

 

They decided to play on the King's bed, which was located in an adjoined alcove and large enough to hold about ten teenage rulers of Baldwin's size. The sheets were fresh and had been scented with fine herbs. Mountains of creme and maroon silk pillows with fine embroideries were piled on the sheets, and all was lit by the flickering light of candles and a large fireplace.

 

Out of respect, Sibylla walked behind her brother, arms raised ever so slightly just in case she should have to steady him. Baldwin, however, granted his wrecked body no such weakness, and after some painfully slow steps, he sank down on the edge of his bed. He lowered his head for a few moments to catch his breath while Sibylla gracefully pretended to inspect the needlework on one of his curtains. Baldwin began taking off his now unnecessary layers of court robes until he was clad only in a sapphire blue tunic and a white overcoat. Then he ordered a young servant to bring a thin board of dark ebony for them to play on. After that, he told the man and his colleagues to retire to their own chambers and give the royal siblings some privacy.

 

With a sigh, Baldwin fell backwards onto a pillow, while Sibylla rolled on her stomach, propped herself up on her elbows and pulled the wooden board up between them.  She placed her box on it and took out the colourful cards. "I'll teach you. It's easy, you'll see." The King nodded and cleared his throat as Sibylla set up the game. She pulled a a blue seven for the start.

 

"We each get five cards that the other cannot look at. The goal is to get rid of all your cards by putting them on the start card - the blue seven here. You can only put down a card that matches the one in the start position in terms of either colour or number. So for this one, any blue card or any card with a seven would work. If you can't put anything down, you have to take an additional one from this stack. There are special cards as well..." Sibylla explained every aspect of the game in detail while her brother listened attentively.

 

After she finished, Baldwin stuck the five cards Sibylla had drawn for him into his useless, perpetually clawed right hand. Then he surveyed the game, and for the first time today his eyes seemed truly alive to Sibylla, sparkling with concentration and amusement. Just like his sister, Baldwin had the game figured out after a few turns.

 

"Uno," he declared with a smug grin a few minutes later. Seemingly miserably, Sibylla assessed the eight cards in her hand. "Oh no, the mighty king has defeated me!", she cried in mock despair before triumphantly playing a Wild Draw Four. "Really, Brother, how _did_ you win this battle of yours two weeks ago?"

 

They continued teasing each other, and in the end, Sibylla won the first round. "Would you like another attempt, Your Majesty?", she asked, still grinning, and grabbed a fistful of pillows to make herself more comfortable on the bed. She threw one of them at Baldwin when she saw the intense, unblinking stare Baldwin had suddenly fixed on the cards. "Don't!", she groaned. "Spare me just this once..."

 

But of course, the young King couldn't resist. He loved games of almost any kind, and even more he loved to analyse them. He believed firmly that all games mimicked certain aspects of humanity; that even the simplest set of rules carried some inherent wisdom or truth about life. Sibylla was willing to agree to this theory for chess. But since Baldwin's last speech about how the children's running games in the palace gardens where really symbolic of the eternal struggle between life and death, she found it somewhat difficult to take her brother seriously in such situations.

 

"You know, sister -" Baldwin casually rested his arms on the pillow she had thrown -  "it might appear like a simplistic game designed only to entertain and amuse, but I think this _Uno_ teaches us an important lesson."

 

"And what might that be?", she asked, raising her eyebrows at him. "Please, I can't bear the anticipation."

 

Baldwin, obviously lost in his world of game symbolism, ignored her. He was still staring at the cards.

"Well, first of all you need to _give away_ your cards in order to succeed at the game."

 

Sibylla groaned. "And?"

 

"And, I suppose... it shows how problems may be approached from entirely different angles that are all equally valid. In order to be useful, a card may have a certain colour, a specific number, or even both - all different solutions that lead to the same desired outcome. A lesson in tolerance, if you will."

 

"Now I almost regret keeping you away from the Council sessions. Your mind obviously goes to strange places when you are not sufficently occupied. It is just a game, you know."

 

"You say the same of chess, dear sister."

 

"Because you are downright unhealthily obsessed with that game. I am still amazed how you even find the time to play it so much."

 

Baldwin chuckled. "It may have to do with the fact that my entire court and family seem to have conspired to keep their king confined to his chambers as much as possible. At some point, one runs out of documents to sign, and even William is growing tired of finding new languages to teach me."

 

Archbishop William of Tyre had been Baldwin's mentor and teacher for as long as Sibylla could remember. Their father had employed him as the family chronicler, and the princess loved reading the almost poetic Latin he used to record their lives. While Sibylla had learnt Latin and English at her aunt's convent outside the city, William decided the king needed to know not only that, but also Greek, Arabic and Hebrew. Baldwin sometimes questioned the usefulness of these classes, seeing as he didn't exactly plan to travel much in his lifetime, but Sibylla knew he enjoyed the distraction his studies provided.

 

Sibylla swung her legs off the bed. "I am thirsty, brother. I will get us water, and you can carry on philosophising." She rose. "I'll be right back."

 

"Make that wine for me, if you would, " Baldwin said without looking up as she was about to leave the bedroom. Sibylla stopped. "Are you in pain, brother?" She knew that because of the disease, her brother could barely tell the difference between the taste of wine and that of water anymore, so a superior bouquet could hardly be the reason he requested wine. It wasn't the first time, either.

 

"Stop worrying, Sibylla. I find it relaxing, that is all. It's nothing, I promise."

 

The way he rubbed his forehead told her otherwise, but she decided not to confront him about it. "You're only sixteen, and you probably already drink more than Count Raymond," she said with a grin. "I would have loved to see your victory feast two weeks ago."

"As would I. I was... unable to attend."

 

Her grin vanished, and she quickly left for the refreshment table next to her brother's work desk. There, she picked two dry and unused cups and a large glass jug filled to the top with red wine. 

 

"Couldn't resist either?", Baldwin asked when she returned. He gladly accepted the cup she filled and handed to him.

 

"Sometimes I feel I am too sober for this world," Sibylla replied, placed her cup on a stool by the bed, filled it and let herself fall back into the pillows with a long sigh, causing some of the Uno cards to tumble through the air around her. She made no attempt at picking them up - instead she propped herself up into a sitting position using three pillows and then reached for her wine. Baldwin had remained seated and took long, grateful swigs from his cup.

 

"I can relate, sister."

 

"Baldwin, I saw the food outside. You haven't eaten anything today; you'll be drunk in no time if you don't slow down."

 

"Again, you're not our mother," came the muffled response from behind the cup. Then Baldwin, too, fell back onto his mattress so that they lay side by side, staring at the white canopy above. 

 

"Well, I can't drink like this," the king observed after a few seconds. Sibylla put her cup aside, grabbed a few more pillows and jammed them under her brother's torso until he was in a reasonably upright position. When she was done, they were surrounded by a mess of down feathers and a few Uno cards drifting through the air like snowflakes. With two fingers, Sibylla removed a small white feather from her cup. It was now red and sticky, and, moving as fast as she could, she pinned it to her brother's forehead.

 

"What are you doing?", he exclaimed, sounding more amused than indignant. He took the feather and inspected it. Then he grabbed a much bigger one that had settled on his chest, dipped it in his wine, and stuck it to Sibylla's cheek.

 

"We truly are the spawn of kings," she giggled. "Let me refill your cup."

 

They lay and drank, exhausted by the day, enjoying the warmth from the fireplace and the sweet-smelling sheets and each others' company.

 

"By the way," Sibylla said after a long while, "what did Suhail do to your hair today? It looks all... clumpy."

 

Baldwin gave a small chuckle. "He's still angry I won't let him cut it. He wanted to examine my back, but apparently my hair got in the way, so I suspect he passive-aggressively sprinkled it with some of his salves. I guess it smells nice now, at least."

 

"You say that like you don't care. Your hair is lovely when properly combed. I can't think of a single girl that wouldn't fall in love with it at first sight."

 

"Well, sadly there is a body attached to my hair - usually that keeps girls at a safe distance."

 

Sibylla shot him a glance. "I hate it when you talk like that."

 

"It's true, though." Baldwin's speech had already become the tiniest bit slurred. Sibylla reached over and absent-mindedly started playing with a strand of his hair. Where it wasn't matted and clumped, it was remarkably soft - so thick and strong it seemed out of place on her brother's sickly, emaciated body.

 

"It really is a shame," she murmured. Then she sat up. "Wait here. Don't move. I have an idea."

 

"I'm not going anywhere, sister. Getting up seems quite impossible to me at the moment."

 

Sometimes, Baldwin had spells that left his arms and legs limp and useless, like a puppet's. They had started about a year ago and usually turned out to be harmless and of short duration, but for a king they were quite an inconvenience. But since he still had a firm grasp on his wine cup she could only assume that her brother was simply wearied beyond belief, and for a second she felt a pang of guilt for coming and bothering him while he was still recovering from the fever.

 

On the other hand, he would tell her if he grew tired of her company. Or so she hoped. She stood and crossed Baldwin's bedroom and study until she reached the wooden double doors. Opening one of them, she called for a servant. Almost immediately, a young man appeared around the corner, and Sibylla sent him to her chambers with a few specific instructions. Five minutes or so passed before a red-haired girl - one of Sibylla's personal handmaidens - came hurrying down the corridor with a set of utensils in her arms. With a brief expression of gratitude, Sibylla took what the girl had brought and made her way back to Baldwin.

 

She found her brother still lying on his stack of pillows. His eyes were half closed, and the now empty cup had slipped from his fingers. Gingerly, she sat down on the bedside next to him. "Baldwin?"

 

His reaction was so fast she almost dropped what she was carrying. He bolted upright, and his left hand flew to his hip, to where he usually carried his sword. Then his mind returned from wherever it had wandered, and the tight, haunted look on his face relaxed. "Oh. I apologise. The battle has left me...-"

 

"On edge, Sire. I quite understand. Look."

 

Baldwin looked tired, but his blue eyes sparkled with amusement when he saw what she had brought.

 

They were utensils from Sibylla's very own dressing table: a fine comb carved from elephant's bone, a soft golden brush, a bottle of perfumed lavender oil, and a handful of silk ribbons.

 

"Sister, you have truly lost your mind. Surely you have, uh, important businesses to attend to in the palace? Or... something?" He looked highly doubtful, though still amused.

 

"Nothing is as important as His Majesty's golden locks, " Sibylla declared with a grin. "Now, be a man. Your hair is far too beautiful to be left in this state; it's a disgrace." She climbed across the bed until she sat cross-legged behind her brother. Then she removed the pillows he had been lying on - all but one, which she placed on her lap with Baldwin's head atop it.

 

"I really think this isn't-", he began, looking up at her, but she cut him off with a glare. "You will love this, I'm telling you. My hands are much gentler than Suhail's." Even though, considering the delicate bandages around Baldwin's fingers, she somewhat doubted her own words.

 

Carefully, she picked up a long, flaxen hank of her brother's long hair and began working through the worst tangles with her comb. She took care to always hold the hair she was combing as close to his head as possible with her other hand so it wouldn't hurt him when she pulled  and plucked at the tips. She knew his hands and arms had gone numb a long time ago, but she had no idea about his head.

 

The work was tedious but rewarding - after ten minutes or so, Baldwin's hair had regained a more or less regal appearance. He brother had closed his eyes again, and she assumed he had fallen asleep again until she uncorked her flask of scented oil, and he sleepily opened one eye to inspect it. "What is that? I do not recognise the smell. And here I thought Suhail had turned me into a professional herbalist with all his pastes."

 

"It's lavender, brother. From Italy. It's very relaxing. I add a few leaves of it to my water when I cannot sleep."

 

"Well, that's one problem I don't have," Baldwin murmured and closed his eyes again.

 

Sibylla filled her palm with the pale oil and started massaging it into her brother's hair. She looked down at his calm features while her hands moved relentlessly. His face was narrow and bony, his cheeks hollow, carrying only the slightest hint of a stubble. Long golden lashes lay fanned out over the blue shadows under his closed eyes. His skin was pale and smooth, but in some places there seemed to be too much of it, forming white creases and lumps around his eyes and nose. There was an open wound in the corner of his mouth that simply refused to heal. He looked far older than he was, and not for the first time Sibylla was overcome by an almost tangible sympathy and grief that tugged at her heart. With the back of her index finger, she softly brushed Baldwin's cheek. The beginnings of a frown formed on his forehead when she repeated the motion.

 

"Sibylla, don't," he said quietly, barely moving his lips. "You cannot... touch me." He sounded infintely lonely, though he clearly tried to seem authoritative.

 

With a sad smile, she leaned forward, until their foreheads were only a wisp of air apart. "I will touch whomever I like, little brother. Don't you try and stop me."

 

After a third soft stroke of his cheek Sibylla went back to massaging oil into the dried-out tips of Baldwin's hair. When she felt it was sufficiently shiny, she worked through it with her comb a second time, until it lay neatly arranged in wavy rows around Baldwin's head like a glossy halo. Finally, she used her much softer brush compile all the separate strands into one luscious mass again.

 

"That... feels wonderful," Baldwin suddenly murmured.

 

Sibylla almost laughed at his sincerity. "I know it does. You should try it more often."

 

Technically, she was done now, but she rather enjoyed working with her brother's hair. Having a little brother you were never allowed to touch was painful - but nobody had ever said anything about hair. Surely that didn't count as skin. No, it was her right to enjoy what little physical contact she could establish. With nimble fingers, she divided the hair into three equal parts and started braiding it tightly. A braid wasn't particularly manly and even less kingly, but at least it would be easy for Suhail to move out of his way. Had Baldwin been sitting up, the braid would almost have reached the tips of his shoulderblades by the time Sibylla was done and wrapped the tips up with a blue ribbon. She placed a light kiss on the braid, wishing she could kiss his forehead instead.

 

"Sibylla?"

 

Baldwin's voice was barely audible, soft as a breath. Still, Sibylla nearly flinched - she had expected him to be fast asleep by now.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Do I not... disgust you?" His voice grew even fainter, and she had to lean closer to catch the last few words. She cast her eyes around the room, taking in the gigantic bed covered in silk pillows, Uno cards and down feathers, the smell of incense and orange mixed with fresh lavender; her brother's thin body underneath his sapphire tunic.

 

"Never, little brother," Sibylla answered, stroking his hair.

 

"Sleep now," she added in a whisper. "Don't worry about the Council. They'll wait. All of Jerusalem will wait if it must. Just sleep..."

 

     

 


End file.
